


(A)typical Week

by xel



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (also occasionally), (but also an excuse for me to write short light hearted stuff), (occasionally), Angst, Family Dynamics, Friendship, Humor, Introspection, Multi, Romance, independent one shots based on the idea of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:04:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xel/pseuds/xel
Summary: They're like a family, in the sort of dysfunctional way camaraderie, concern, and war breed affection.  But also in the sort of way stealing the last of the whipped cream crosses a line past friendship.
  Ch.6
  “Sorry,” Hana says, stops, runs her fingers over the molding of the door frame. “I just - didn’t know who to go to…” she trails off.
  Fareeha’s been in the military long enough to know what a person looks like at their breakpoint and so it is half instinct which leads her forward, arms extended.





	1. 8 a.m., Monday

**Author's Note:**

> I see a lot of fics about the Overwatch team being like a family. And I like those fics ... And I kind of want to take part in that community. So here's to making an effort.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hana isn’t really a morning person ... but with Jack, /everyone/ is a morning person.

Hana gets up precisely at 8 a.m. on weekdays, mills about her room, groggy and unfocused to get ready for the day, and then goes out to face the world. Generally, the only person permitted to talk to her during this time of lucid waking is Lúcio, and only to say good morning. 

Today, she slinks past Angela and Fareeha in the dining hall, one with the news pulled up on a tablet, the other placidly staring into the swirling vortex of her tea. (Fareeha does not eat many sweet things, but she will dump several spoonfuls of sugar into her tea and no one has quite been able to figure out why. Even Angela remains unsure.)

Hana finds the handle of the fridge after several attempts to grasp it. Grunting a response to Angela’s delicate ‘good morning, sweetheart,’ she grabs a can of whipped cream (hidden in the far depths of the shelves, behind a number of bananas, from those who might try to deprive her of this one saving grace on a base which seems to be devoid of nearly anything even remotely unhealthy - this includes soda, which Hana is not taking gracefully). 

Can in hand, she makes her way to the couch opposite the two women, sprays as much cream as she can fit into her mouth, and then let’s her head lull over the couch back, eyes closed. 

Fareeha looks up from her cup and glances at Angela. Angela chuckles politely into her hand and returns to her tablet. 

“Hana,” says Fareeha, awaking the Starcraft super star from her delirium, “if you are so tired, why do you not sleep in?” 

Jack strolls in from the hall, then, cutting off Hana's reply, coffee in hand, hair pristine, outfit adjusted and not a single thread is out of order. In the hand not occupied by coffee is a water bottle, the cap suspiciously missing. Fareeha notices how Hana glares from under her bangs. 

A couple of seconds later Junkrat, (Jamison - he is now an overwatch operative, and his name is important - although he’s taking it with one finger on the detonator to hightail it back into crime) clad only in boxers, his hair suspiciously wet, clambers in. He turns to them, distraught, his arms flailing wildly in the direction of Jack. Hana sprays more cream into her mouth, nods in sympathy. 

“Everyone should be awake by or before eight,” Jack is saying idly to Junkrat, refilling his coffee mug, “facilitates good sleeping habits, and general wellness.” He casts an eye to Mercy who, despite having no discernible sleeping schedule and little care for her own wellbeing, nods in agreement.

“Didn’ have to soak me, mate!” wines Junkrat, “'lil shake on th’ shoulder, 'hey, champ, rise an’ shine’ i’d’ve got the picture.” 

“I know how hard it can be to rouse you kids." A pause. "This method is effective,” Jack turns to Hana, his expression unreadable under his mask but she gets the vague sense that he’s smirking, and she has vivid flashbacks of staying up into the early morning, streaming, to have Jack drizzle water down her neck three hours later, and it _haunts_ her. “Isn’t that right, Hana?” 

Hana grumbles around the nozzle of her whipped cream. She turns to Fareeha. Sarcastically, just above a whisper, in response to her early question, she hisses: _“because dad won’t let me”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zarya and Ganymede face off.

Ganymede has beady black eyes, soulless and vacant. And its head twitches this way and that like it’s possessed.

“Be gone,” barks Zarya, dropping out of a deadlift.

The loud clanking causes Ganymede to blink, but if it is startled, there are no outward signs. It is perched on some lifting equipment in the corner, watching, always watching, and Zarya feels equal parts unsettled and annoyed.

“Shoo,” she waves an arm. Nothing. Zarya grumbles, no longer feeling the joy of her workout. She grabs a towel from a rack near the exit and makes to leave. Ganymede flies past her. Lands on a light fixture in the hallway and waits.

“I do not like you,” Zarya says, “you are just like omnic, filthy and mean.” Ganymede chirps. Zarya ignores it, makes her way further into the watchpoint base. Ganymede follows her the entire time.

* * *

“He’s just being friendly,” Mei says, a smile in her voice. She is draped over Zarya’s stomach, her nose buried deep in an academic article about arctic climates. Zarya is staring blankly at the ceiling. Ganymede is on her wardrobe.

Zarya wonders why it is not perched on the bastion unit, as it should be. She has dutifully been avoiding the unit. Unwilling to let her opinions on letting it into their ranks sway her from her task. She is not a fool. She knows that Overwatch is more important than her discriminations, founded as they may be. If Winston and Solider: 76 feel that these omnics are worthy of her trust … she will tolerate them.

“I think it is mocking me,” Zarya replies. She concentrates on her breathing when Mei fails to reply, her attention clearly elsewhere. And grins at the way Mei raises and falls with each inhale and exhale, unaware. Ganymede chirps.

* * *

A week is an appropriate amount of time, Zarya decides. She has been putting off confronting the bastion unit, but Ganymede is relentless in its pursuit and Zarya has had enough.

She’s stalks to the room the bastion unit has been assigned to, and not finding it there, b-lines toward Lúcio’s room. The unit has been known to have quality speakers; she remembers being told, and a fondness for the DJ.

Ganymede follows her as she moves, landing occasionally on lamps and furniture as they come.

She finds both the unit and Lúcio through Lúcio’s open door. The music is loud and not to Zarya’s tastes, but Bastion turns it down when it spots her and Lúcio smiles so warmly Zarya wonders, just briefly, how such a creature could exist in as war-torn a world as this.

“Yo! Aleks!”

Zarya lifts a hand.

“I must speak with the bastion,” she says. Confused, Lúcio steps aside. The bastion makes several beeping noises which Zarya does not understand and does not care to make sense of. Ganymede flies in behind her, perching itself of the bastion’s shoulder-like construction.

“Your bird,” says Zarya. “Tell it to relent.”

Bastion makes a whirling noise.

Zarya is not sure if it has understood. 

There is a pause. 

And then, Bastion reaches down with its one claw, retrieves a stick stuck between two scraps of rusting metal on its body, and presents it to her. Zarya hasn’t a clue what she is expected to do with the stick. It beeps at her, its head pivots to the nest Ganymede is nestled in.

It dawns on Zarya suddenly, and she is not sure why, but it is of her own volition. She peers at Ganymede, offering it the stick. 

Ganymede chirps, delighted, feathers ruffled in song, as it places it in a corner of the nest.

Zarya is not sure she has seen anything so adorable in her entire life.

“Oh my god.” Says Lúcio, who Zarya has, she is sorry to say, completely forgotten about.

He’s got a phone in hand, the biggest smile on his face. Zarya feels her face turn scarlet.

“I still do not like it,” she mutters, and scuttles out of the room. 

The image circles around Watchpoint: Gibraltar almost instantly.

(Mei makes it her phone’s background.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by a pun on a title I had thought up for the chapter as a whole ... But then I thought about it a little more and it occurred to me that it might be in bad taste to call it that. 
> 
> So, no title. But I hope the content is fun and enjoyable! (It was written quickly. Like really quickly. So it's not really good. Also, if you spot errors, please let me know.)
> 
> Enjoy!


	3. Sweet Tea and Jesse McCree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery behind Fareeha's sweetened tea is solved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll bet y'all thought that little anecdote about Fareeha's tea preference in ch. 1 was just some exposition. 
> 
> You fools! Of course there's a story. (You're not fools, you're very cool. Please enjoy!)

“How d’you do, darlin’?” Says McCree.

Fareeha, who is very absorbed in staring out the open doors of the hanger, glances over her shoulder at his approach. Her Raptora suit is half polished and a slew of tools are spread out on a grease rag close by. Jesse thinks he’s seen her look better, but he likes being not dead so he zips his lip and doesn't tell her that.

They both know she’s been out of sorts since Ana’s return months ago. Fareeha’s like an armadillo, and she’s curled into herself. Maybe it's anger. Maybe it's self-preservation. Jesse knows she doesn't want him asking. 

“I have been better,” Fareeha admits. (Possibly to herself since it’s said in a kind of hushed way, like she’s not keen on admitting to anything.)

McCree nods, takes a seat on the floor across from her, pulls out his peacekeeper. He disassembles it, idly cleaning the chambers, as he looks at her.

“I’d say _cowboy it up, big girl,_ but I ain’t heartless,” Jesse flashes her a grin; Fareeha gives him a look he doesn’t have a name for, and after a brief moment of stoicism, cracks a grin.

“I would not know what it meant anyway,” she fires back, “you should work on that.”

“Cowboy it up?” Jesse sputters, seems almost offended. “C’mon, Pharah, dust off your britches? Get back up on that bull?” Fareeha gives him an incredulous look and he groans.

“I ain’t never been so disappointed; didn’t I teach you anythin’ growin’ up?”

Fareeha stares out the hanger doors behind him, seeming to think deep about the question. Her lips do not twitch, her face turns passive. She says, in the driest tone Jesse swears he’s ever heard:

“You taught me how to make very good tea.”

Jesse blinks stupidly for a solid moment and then his lips lift into the wildest grin and he laughs so hard he has to grab his stomach.

“Otherwise,” and here Fareeha cracks and flashes a smirk, “no.”

* * *

 

_"Lipton iced tea - two baggies._

_Three heaping spoonfuls of sugar._

_Don't have to be iced, darlin' but it's better that way."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesse and I are probably the most similar as far as character connection goes. So I've inserted a lot of personal experience into his character in this chapter. For instance, my dad used to always tell me to "cowboy it up, big girl" when I got hurt (usually followed by a, "cuts and bruises are trophies!") ... also, that is my family's legit recipe for tea. It's basically sugar water (and definitely better hot.) 
> 
> This chapter is hecka short but was also one I was really excited to write ... so I hope y'all like it, too. Leave a comment if you do!


	4. Midnight Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pharah loves Mercy and Ana returns.

In terms of sudden and unexpected arrivals of presumed dead loved ones, Fareeha was pretty sure there had probably been worse timing, somewhere in the world.

  
Ana hadn’t shown up alive to her own funeral, after all, and she hadn’t popped up like a daisy in the middle of a battlefield. She’d sent word via 76 in advance, given Fareeha ample time to think and over think and exhaustively think about what this meant for her life and her choices - many of which contradicted Ana’s own wishes.

  
And soon the day had arrived and Ana had waltzed through the door in the way that only her mother seemed to know how to - drawing all eyes, demanding to be seen; her presence felt. The entire base had rushed her in joyous hugs and laughter and tears.

  
Fareeha had held back. Her tears long since dried, and no words on her lips to give. Angela caught her eye briefly, a reassuring smile, before she too was swept up in the commotion of Ana’s radiance.   
It occurred to Fareeha, not for the first time, that with Ana’s hawk-eyed, pin-prick precision, she would eventually pick up on the thing between Fareeha and Angela. In time. It was only the matter of it.

  
Fareeha had waved, had not felt up to the conversation. And had left shortly thereafter.

  
_____

  
“Hello,” smiles Angela, sliding into Fareeha’s dorm, the door shuts silently behind her. Fareeha’s eyes roam up from her lap, where her prosthetic lays, half oiled and shining. She flashes a winsome grin, her eyes flickering to the empty space beside her on the bed.

  
Angela doesn’t need more of an invitation than that.

  
“I did not expect you,” says Fareeha and kisses Angela’s cheek before she remembers that their relationship is undefined and perhaps she should have first asked.

Angela seems unbothered, her lips quirk up at the contact.  
“I’m avoiding your mother,” says Angela. She brings her hand to the junction of Fareeha’s shoulder and where the prosthetic will connect to it, running a finger along the scarred skin there. Fareeha can’t really feel it, but she blushes just the same. “She keeps asking about you.”

  
Fareeha is feeling guilty for not yet sitting down with her mother for more than a couple of minutes. She imagines there’s a lot they should talk about, but she can’t think of where to begin. She’s not mad, not anymore, but perhaps she is bitter. And perhaps it would be unfair to confront Ana before she’s sure of what she is feeling.

  
Talking to her mother is, after all, its own sort of war. And no good solider goes into a war without a plan.

  
Fareeha finishes polishing her arm, and fumbles with locking it back in place.

  
“Give me a hand?” Says Fareeha, after a minute, forgoing the previous conversation, and chuckles unhindered when Angela shoots her a glare that doesn’t quite make its mark.

  
“Your puns are awful,” says Mercy, and locks the prosthetic in place. Fareeha wiggles her fingers - marvels momentarily in the dexterity and sheen of the limb and knows that she is protected.

  
“Awfully charming?” Fareeha purrs; Angela smirks, moves to straddle her and Fareeha can feel the warm blood rise up her neck and over her ears. She has always been easily embarrassed, and her flirting loses its effect when Angela so effortlessly flusters her during it. In this game, Angela has solidly stolen every point Fareeha has ever earned.   
Fareeha doesn’t mind.

  
“No,” says Angela, and kiss her.

  
_____________

  
So Fareeha is in love - or well on her way to love, or perhaps it is something else, something other than words altogether.

  
Words have never really been Fareeha’s greatest weapon anyway, but still it feels like this unsaid thing will eat her if she doesn’t lay it out.

  
And there is a rift that possibly she will never be able to mend with her mother, but Ana’s perception has led her to hone in on Angela and speculate and prod and that’s not Angela’s burden to endure. So when Fareeha settles on finally confronting Ana, it’s like killing two birds with one stone, in a way: say the thing that can’t be said, and maybe cut Angie a break.

  
Fareeha makes a pot of tea around midnight and waits for her mother, who is punctual to a fault and strides in at 1:30 only to stop, briefly, almost unnoticeable in the doorway. There’s a small twitch of her lips upward, before she makes herself a cup and takes her seat across from Fareeha.

  
“Hello, habibti,” Ana says, and takes a sip.

  
“Mother,” Fareeha replies in kind. They’re silent for more than a moment, and Fareeha might’ve let it continue - her carefully crafter plans have already crumbled around her. How does one talk about this with their mother? With anyone? - Luckily, Ana is blunt, but also a savior, and she cuts the silence like a knife through warm butter.

  
“So, Angela?” Ana says, her tone is even but there’s a glint in her eye, a devilish smirk at the corner of her lips. Fareeha’s ears burn and she feels suddenly warm.   
“You are too observant,” Fareeha says with a sigh, takes a sip from her mug to avoid having to look her mother in the eye when everything feels so raw and exposed under Ana’s watchful, all-seeing gaze.

  
“I see everything,” Ana says in a kind of quipping way. Still, there’s no malice, not really, “but you are also not subtle. You never have been.”

  
It’s been a major point of contingency between them, Fareeha has recently realized. Ana has never approved of her choices, but perhaps Fareeha’s inability to disguise her disregard for her mother’s wishes is also a bit to blame. There is a middle ground somewhere that neither of them have found yet. It may be that it is an island that will take effort and a boat to get to, and maybe that is why they’re finding it so difficult to acknowledge that there are no guiltless parties … but then, no one is guilty either. Not really. It’s just a different way of thinking.

  
“I love her,” says Fareeha, suddenly. It comes to her lips and flows out like smooth liquor and she did not mean for it to, but it cannot be taken back. Fareeha does not want to - will not - take it back.

  
“Of course you do,” says Ana, “I should tell you that I don’t think this is the time or the place for love, but when have you ever listened to me?” And there - that’s the bitter tinge of acid seeping out into the space between them, with no objective but to be acknowledged. Fareeha has already let it go.

  
“You had a child - me - during a war,” Fareeha reminds her. Ana laughs.

  
“The timing could have gone better,” she admits. A pause, “you love her?”

  
“I do.”

  
____________

  
Angela has only intended to get a glass of water; had not intended to overhear; and yet she has. And her blood pumps, red bright red under the skin of her arms so hard she can hear it, and she feels vivid when Fareeha says that she loves her. Angela has never heard her say it before and it makes her light with possibilities and fear.

But mostly giddy, giddy with joy. Angela has to turn quickly and scuttle far away from the commons before the giggle in her throat bubbles up.

  
And Angela does not know, and neither does Fareeha, but Ana has heard that, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, oh god, let's never talk about this :'))


	5. Shell it Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt based: Hanzo attempts to be romantic, and despite his best endevours, things go horribly wrong. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is less family-dynamic-y and more straight up McHanzo, so if you're not interested in that, that's alright - just come back next chapter! :3

Hanzo is sitting seiza, and he has never felt more exposed and demure in his entire life. Across from him, Genji is sitting cross-legged, chin resting on his fist, fist connected to the arm, propped up on the knee. There is a low hum from his body as it goes about keeping him alive. Hanzo could, once upon a time, tell exactly what Genji was thinking at any given time, simply by looking at his face. Now? Now Hanzo hasn’t a clue.

The steel plates which are his chin obscure the lips, the visor which hides the damage caused by Hanzo’s own hands, also hides his eyes - no doubt full of mirth at this moment.

“Will you help me?” Hanzo says, a serious current to the words. He forgets himself. He sighs. He says ‘please’ so low Genji asks him to repeat it. Or perhaps Genji asks him to repeat because Genji is a fox disguised as a man, and he enjoys watching Hanzo squirm.

“Please,” Hanzo says again, louder. Genji chuckles, throws his arms back so he can lean back on his palms.

“I will help you, brother,” Genji finally says, relieving Hanzo of all the pent up apprehension resting in his shoulders. They sag of their own accord. “After all,” says Genji, “I am clearly the more gracious brother.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes.

“How can I help?” Genji says, there is a smirk in his voice that Hanzo does not appreciate. Still, Hanzo replies:

“I would like to do something pleasant for Jesse.”

Genji leans forward, interested. Hanzo coughs.

“To reassure him that his advances are welcome–”

“–and enjoyed?” Genji grins. A pause.

“Yes,” says Hanzo. “I feel I have been too aloof until now, and perhaps that is why he has not pestered me as I’ve come to expect.” Genji snorts at the phrasing.

“You are awful at being endearing,” says Genji with a laugh. Hanzo is beginning to think this was a mistake, but the truth is, of all the people with whom Jesse McCree is acquainted from his days in the original overwatch, Genji is the only one Hanzo is comfortable talking to.

He has been here for months and has only recently managed to insert himself into the dynamic. He is only here for Genji, after all. To repent. To suffer.

It has newly been pointed out to him, by Jesse no less, that he is worth more than the debts which bound him. And so yes, perhaps he has grown … attached to Jesse. (Really, to these people as a whole, in a way, for having him, for accepting him despite his misgivings.)

But to Jesse. Jesse is … Jesse … Hanzo groans.

Jesse is clearly ruining his life.

Genji watches his brother studiously under the protective veil of his visor. He watches Hanzo’s eyes flicker, the crease in his forehead deepen. When he feels that Hanzo has adequately become lost in his thoughts about their favorite resident cowboy, he pulls him back by leaning forward, grabbing hold of his shoulder, and smiling.

“The way to any man’s heart is food, brother,” says Genji, “and I happen to know that Jesse McCree is no exception. If you truly wish to make a romantic gesture, I suggest a classic candle-lit dinner.”

“Dinner.” Hanzo deadpans.

“You are an excellent cook,” says Genji, “another fact I happen to know to be true.”

“You are serious?”

“Deathly,” says Genji. Hanzo is not amused by the subtle jab, but he recognizes that he probably deserves every death joke Genji directs at him.

“You cannot go wrong with dinner, Hanzo,” Genji adds, sounding genuine when he continues: “go and get your man.”

* * *

Good intentioned as Genji was, Hanzo has learned that you can, in fact, go very, very wrong with dinner.

* * *

Jesse spends a week and a half on a mission in Egypt and Hanzo uses this time to think about the dinner, to prepare aspect of the dinner, to buy candles and a bouquet of sunflowers and forget-me-nots. He goes to the fish market and picks up the fattest shrimp he can find, steals some of Genji’s aged rice. Finds fresh produce at the farmer’s market.

Jesse and the rest of the agents deployed arrive on a Wednesday evening, and despite his general rule of not meeting returning squads on the landing deck, Hanzo goes this time. Noticing, with a mild amount of annoyance, that Genji is standing off to the side, next to Lúcio, chatting in whispered tones.

Hanzo’s heart hammers in his chest like a series of small explosions igniting in sequence; his palms are sweaty. He has not asked a man on a date in years, he realizes.

Fareeha is first to exit, flashing a thumbs up to 76 - a sign that the mission was a success, no major injuries. Lena and D.Va exit, and then Ana Amari, and then Jesse stumbled out, grinning like a god of the sun, but also like an idiot.

Hanzo notices him, breathes deeply through his nose, and the strides forward.

Jesse notices him almost immediately, his smile grows, radiant; radiant and unhindered. Perhaps that is the thin Hanzo likes most about Jesse McCree, he feels nothing in half measures. Everything is displayed for the world to embrace or scrutinize and Hanzo has done both.

“Welcome back,” says Hanzo, his voice is smooth and even, despite the rapid flutter of his heart, the weird way he can feel the blood rushing through the veins of his arm.

“Aw hell,” grins Jesse, “ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Hanzo, who has been slowly learning all of Jesse’s idioms, hasn’t yet heard this one.

“How did you hurt your eyes?” Asks Hanzo, genuinely interested to know what transpired to lead to this peculiar injury. McCree chuckles, rubs his neck.

“Just an’ expression, Han,” he says. “Anyway, what bring you out? Don’t much see you greetin’ the returners.”

In the distance Genji is snickering and Lúcio is laughing discreetly behind a hand and for a brief moment, Hanzo hates them both in equal measure.

“Ah,” says Hanzo, “yes,” continues Hanzo, “well, you see,” stammers Hanzo – Jesse raises an eyebrow, remains silent – “if you are not busy tomorrow evening, I’d like to prepare dinner for you.” Hanzo finishes. Thinks for a hair of a second, and then adds, tactfully: “as a thank you of sorts, but perhaps as a date, too.”

Hanzo has never seen a man smiles so largely, or turn such a vibrant shade of red. He takes both as a good sign, though when neither diminishes quickly, he wonders if he shouldn’t call Dr. Ziegler to preform a check up, just as a precaution.

“It’d be my genuine pleasure,” says Jesse.

Feeling equal parts exhausted and relieved, Hanzo can’t do much more than nod in approval.

“Perfect,” he says, “I will be by your dorm at eight tomorrow to pick you up.” And having accomplished what he set out to, Hanzo pivots on his heels and briskly makes for the exit. From the corner of his eye, he can see Jesse run to Fareeha, throw an arm around her shoulder, yell what faintly sounds like “got myself a hot date!”

They are both laughing. Jesse freely, Fareeha in the reserved way Hanzo has come to expect from her.

* * *

The following evening, Hanzo spends two hours preparing the food and setting a cast iron patio table on a cliff edge not far from the base, where they will be able to watch the last tendrils of daylight reach up and toward the evening sky from their point of origin at the horizon at the edge of the ocean.

It is, Hanzo will admit freely, perfect.

Everything ready, he goes to pick up Jesse. In normal fashion, Jesse has managed to, once again, surprise him. His fly-away hairs have been tamed and that awful hat is suspiciously absent. Jesse winks, runs a hand through his hair.

“Didn’t want yer eyes on anything but me,” he explains in his charming way. He’s got jeans on, a button down flannel shit, cowboy boots - but Hanzo knows you can’t change a person, you can only be glad when they make an effort to meet you half way.

“Shall we?” Says Hanzo. Jesse goes to tip the hat, reaches air, recovers by scratching the scruff of his chin.

“Lead the way, darlin’.”

Feeling brave, confident, self assured, Hanzo links his arm in Jesse’s.

The initial surprise on the cowboy’s face is enough to make Hanzo smirk. He enjoys having the upper hand.

Hanzo leads them to the cliff edge. The candles burn in high topped candles holders around the table, the bouquet is resting on the table top, square in the middle, stems cut short so that they can see one another. There are two plates, covered currently to keep the contents warm, set in front of each chair.

Jesse whistles low and appreciatively.

“This is,” he says, clears his throat, “this is really somethin’, Han.”

Hanzo guides him to his chair.

“Yes well,” he responds, “Work of self, obtainment of self.” A moment of silence.

“…What?” Jesse says. Hanzo stops, halfway to his chair, let’s out a chuckle, for once feeling as though he’s bested Jesse McCree. He takes his seat, stairs at Jesse and then explains:

“You get what you give,” he refrains from talking long enough to pour them both a glass of wine, “I want this to be a good evening, so I have prepared in a manner to make that so.”

Jesse’s infallible grin is back and Hanzo’s heart is pitter-pattering in all sorts of peculiar ways he is refusing to acknowledge.

They talk for a bit, and then Hanzo removes the lids from their plates and they eat. And it is phenomenal, the stir-fry is everything Hanzo wanted it to be.

“Oh man,” says Jesse, “this is the best meal I’ve had this side of the Atlantic.”

A self-satisfied smirk graces Hanzo’s lips, and he is feeling good, giddy even ... for about ten minutes.

On the eleventh minute, Jesse starts gagging. And Hanzo is on the verge of being offended, when Jesse’s hand flies to his throat, and then the other desperately reaches for his pocket.

It is not commonly known, partly at Jesse’s discretion, that he is allergic to only one thing (but detrimentally so): shellfish.

It is slightly more commonly known that shrimp are a form of shellfish.

Had Hanzo known the first bit of information, he would not have bought the fattest, most decadent shrimp from the fish market, cut them in such a way that they blended into the aesthetic of the meal as a whole, and served them to Jesse McCree.

As it is, Hanzo watches in equal part horror and stunned awe as Jesse yanks an EpiPen out of his jeans pocket and stabs it into his thigh.

“Go get Angela,” Jesse croaks, Hanzo is on his feet, frantic, and is about to make a mad dash towards the base when Jesse yells, “no wait, don’ get Angie, get Ana!”

* * *

Hanzo is sitting next to Jesse in the infirmary, hating life in general, and shrimp in particular, looking at Jesse, who is looking back through mildly puff eyes.

“Could’ve been worse,” Jesse says, in some misguided attempt to be comforting.

“I don’t see how,” says Hanzo. Jesse cracks a smile.

“Ya could’ve gone and got Angela.”

“I do wonder why you had me go and get Amari?” Hanzo says idly, rubbing his thumb over Jesse’s forearm in soothing circles. He feels truly awful.

“We’ve got a bet goin’ - I told Angie I’d be the first one to ask you out,” says Jesse, “I ain’t quite ready to lose that fifty bucks.” Despite himself, Hanzo finds he is chuckling.

“You are a fool,” he mutters. Jesse laughs. And they fall into a comfortable silence.

“Hey Hanzo,” Jesse says after a minute, his lips lifting into a grin, “just so ya know: I’m a little allergic to shellfish.”


	6. Need a Hug?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The possible platonic relationship between D.va and Pharah is quite possibly my favorite possibility in the Overwatch universe. So here's Fareeha being a good person in Hana's life.

“Pharah,” says Hana quietly, her knuckles pressed lightly against the woman’s dorm door.

She feels stupid for being here, for having even knocked. She feels unworthy, or maybe childish. Hana has seen the world crumble around her at times: explosions, and lost friends, and war. Blood in the eyes, in her dreams, too; honest and horrifying _war_. She's not a child, incapable of taking care of herself. She tells herself she’s alright, most days. But in MEKA she had ACE, and she doesn’t feel alright now, without him - without anyone.

On her last mission, she’d been resurrected for the first time and even though Mercy had tried to comfort her, to stay by her for awhile, the ethereal light haunts her more than any demon ever could. She hasn’t slept in days.

Fareeha doesn’t answer immediately, and after a long moment, Hana withdraws her hand and pivots - it was a mistake anyway - but there’s a sound like squeaking hinges and then Fareeha says, her voice deep and groggy with sleep:

“Hana?”

And so Hana faces her. She's obviously just woken up, her hair is all over the place; for some reason this makes Hana feel slightly better.

“Sorry,” she says, stops, runs her fingers over the molding of the door frame. “I just - didn’t know who to go to…” she trails off.

* * *

 

Fareeha’s been in the military long enough to know what a person looks like at their breakpoint and so it is half instinct which leads her forward, arms extended.

She hugs Hana. She hugs her in a way she hopes is reminiscent of the way her mother used to hold her: protective and firm and comforting. Hana goes a bit limp in the embrace. Her eyes fluttering closed, Fareeha can’t see the bags under them now, but they’re dark, getting darker everyday.

“I had a friend … in MEKA … he was my delegated emotional baggage monkey,” Hana says after a very long time. Fareeha lets her go slowly but Hana keeps her head against Fareeha’s chest and looks at the floor; Fareeha thinks it’s probably to avoid eye contact. She can’t tell if Hana’s crying.

“He sounds like a good friend.”

“He’s alright,” says Hana, watery, in the understated way she’s been known to give affection.

“Are you alright, Hana?” Asks Fareeha after a time, and after a longer time Hana responds.

“No…” which Fareeha is not even a little surprised to hear. “Can I stay here? For a bit?”

Fareeha nods.

* * *

Fareeha sets up the 18" standard television each room is equipped with to play the game show network and sits shoulder to shoulder with Hana on her full sized bed to watch it.

Fareeha, who is very good at game shows and really enjoys playing along, whispers answers to herself as she watches until she hears snoring. And looking over, Hana has curled herself into a ball pressed between Fareeha and the wall.

It’s unfair, Fareeha knows, to ask anyone to serve in a war. Even Fareeha, who’d willingly enlisted, had had reservation and nightmares that plagued her for years. And although she knows Hana cares deeply for her country and her friends, it’s a lot to ask anyone to sacrifice their life the way the Korean government had asked that group of gamers.

Part of Fareeha is a little mad; but it would be an insult to Hana to voice that anger.

Instead, she turns off the television, now airing a rerun of Chain Reactions, rolls over so her back is to Hana, pulls the covers up, and goes back to sleep.

She remembers: Okoro had been her delegated emotional baggage monkey.


End file.
